


Brevity of the Night

by Akiisathing



Category: Cyberpunk 2077 (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Appearance-neutral V, Everyone is gone, F/M, Female V (Cyberpunk 2077), Hurt No Comfort, Inter- and internal-gang conflict, Nomad V (Cyberpunk 2077), Post-Canon, Slow Burn, V was a little too dumb in making side-story decisions, at least for a bit V is in emotional agony, sprinkled melodrama
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-23
Packaged: 2021-03-28 12:15:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30139419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akiisathing/pseuds/Akiisathing
Summary: A disheartened V works with Padre to manipulate the direction of the power vacuum resulting from Arasaka’s fall from grace. After her raid on the Arasaka tower, her allies, while in wide variety and more than few and far between, are nothing more than pawns; people whom she has little worry for their fate and longevity. Yet, karma will haunt V like the ghosts of her past, and a name far more than a pawn in the grand scheme of her life makes headway.
Relationships: Goro Takemura/V
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17





	1. Bruise in the Blues, part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was little left for her to do but write. Perhaps things were left unsaid, yet they wouldn’t be buried in her head. Only in a notebook that none would read, not even her, once the page was turned and the chapter concluded.

V left the blinds open. When she wasn’t writing, her eyes would drift from the stilted words to the city’s bright gloom. Neon scarred the skyline with its pulsating veins, coiling and squeezing the rusting steel. Its glare had once disrupted her, displeased her in its overbearing luminosity. The quietness of the natural sky was masked by the city’s dominance; despite being named for the night, it wasn’t in tribute - It became it. It swallowed all that it reached, numerably those with a heightened degree of naivete. 

She had entered the city hating its aesthetic, but she wore it now. Not proudly, to any extent. Still, the chrome of her eyes, limbs, and veins shined like the city, reminding her of the will which altered to a perpetual state of shame. What V had gained didn’t feel like a benefit; nonetheless, karma came from one’s every action. And the lights were now a pale pulse in her optics. 

The pen dropped from her hand and onto the table adjacent to her couch. It really feels useless, she surmised, caving into the crowded pillows of yesterday’s laundry and takeout. The neon had stained her eyelids, a picture-perfect image resounding in her head as a visual lullaby. Yes, she was tired – exhausted even – the typically groomed hair in a shaggy mane, incessant ramblings to a man she called Johnny, and her handwriting were all signs of one who hasn’t slept rightly. 

“Just what he wanted – I'm fuckin’ rotting, man.” She spat, her spine crumbling, and a trembling face digging into the back cushion. Pathetic rang in her head, from whom she couldn’t determine, the disappointed voices all blended into an amalgamation. 

Her head would ring again that night. However, she could discern the name, see the face, recognize the expectation. Another gig, rightfully so. V didn’t need sleep, she believed. That could be augmented, too; maybe not as efficiently, but pills still did the trick. The name rung again, firm in gaining her attention. Sebastian “Padre” Ibarra, good God, her knuckles popped, and her brow now trembled on its lonesome. 

“Hey, Padre. Why call me at the devil’s hour?” She jested, yet her tone implied the pulling frown on her face. 

“Another gig, my friend. The hour, unfortunately, is of importance. Maelstrom does the Devil’s work, and swiftly, might I add. So, you must act faster. Details will be attached.” 

Just as quickly as he intruded, the fixer left. Abrupt in his giving of what he deemed the Lord’s work towards order, as the odor of chaos grew to a dominating stench. What little was left of God’s work was entrusted to him, the man who dealt judgement, as none would receive the end of a barrel without his instigation. 

A solo like V wasn’t an angel, but a sign. Chaotic in their own right; a necessary evil which knew its place. The angels she knew were all corrupted or gone from the reigns of Hell which were those who deemed themselves powerful enough to deliver their subjects from damnation. Again, the naivete, following those they believed to be righteous to do what they saw as right. To a solo, killing a man for money was right because the most important thing to a merc was themself; they were an inner sanctum. 

Again, again, those voices. She was pathetic, naïve, even now. She looked through her contacts, the names she hadn’t spoken to in months, the ones she lacked the courage to delete; they were done with her, so eloquently put by their messages. 

“So long, V.” She read aloud, “Rot in hell.” She read through more, like the pain was addicting. Her hoarse voice protruded from a grin, phone swaying from hand to hand as she continued to read. Eventually, her smile swerved into a choke, the burning in her throat and eyes walloping her mien further into the spiritless solo she had strived to be. 

Her sorrow was self-contrived, she believed, arriving at Padre’s number. The choking left a grimness to her face that showed itself in the outlines of her eyes, the leer they bore towards all. In the irritable notoriety she hung over herself; the agitation she provoked would one day stir her allies to a better cause: against her. 

Nonetheless, for now, she was still on the side of God. And what he had for his infamous - but again - controlled bundle of chaos, was a slaughter. He knew she was one to take what was most precious, what He bestowed upon his damnable subjects. Although, a slaughter of the metalheads of Maelstrom would be seen as merciful in His eyes. At least she still had a mind, what it took to be human. And so, their deaths were justifiable; they brought order, as their stolen goods would be delivered back to His devotee. 

She echoed the disciple’s message in her own cruel tone, “...medicines could be used to abstain them from power in their own territory. However, I’ve recognized that you’ll require partnership with another merc.” She closed her eyes, chest heaving with a heated sigh, “Whether or not that harms your title as a solo should be of less importance than your prompted assault. Anyways, he is new, but not dubious to God’s work. His number will be attached, as well.” 

She tapped the number, expecting some generic - a chromed idiot akin to her. Staring at her reflection grew tiring. So many contradictions she had observed in her life but didn’t expect one to come bursting in red, bold with the name Goro Takemura.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, okay, this is happening. This is my first published fanfic, actually, which is a weird feeling in terms of “damn, what if someone legitimately reads this?”. My insecurities only agreed to this ‘cause I was starved for more Goro and his words. I’m sure a bunch of Goro fanatics are also starving, considering we didn’t get a romance option. Anyways, if you ended up reading to here, thanks for giving my work a read (it’s unmentionably appreciated).


	2. Bruise in the Blues, part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goro Takemura: a man whom V believed to be absent of surprises. However, she supposed a broken will could do things to a man, make them a scum of their own volition. And, despite the bitter taste left from his survival, V couldn’t help but prefer him as a solo over a memory.

The night had matured, yet even the complete darkness of the sky was overwhelmed by the fluorescence; neon which chased V as she propelled the Arch through Northside’s vacant streets. Leaning forward, she dialed her partner’s number again, to no avail. The sheering winds of her velocity took her curses with them.  
‘Even now, guess I’m too low for his dignity,’ she narrowed her eyes, leering at the industrial structures ahead, their skyline rough and grating, a coarse river of steel. They were too old to bounce the neon back towards her, aged without management, and now only used by Maelstrom to store contraband; its roofs only visible in the night by the city’s backdrop, reminding its inhabitants that with duration, it became a mere monument of progress.  
The echoed howls of the devil’s victims replaced the factory’s clanging, the last and permanent prompting of the area’s deterioration. As she slowed, the grinding of vocals on the rust tore through right to her, cueing a nudge of the stereo. A laxed tune played from Pacifica’s station, swaying like the palms above her.  
‘Damn city contradicts its own aesthetic,’ she thought, closing her eyes as the Arch stuttered into a stop. ‘Maelstrom can’t go a day without a “cruel and unusual” punishment,’ a sentiment V was sure others would agree to. She only switched off Pacifica once the last rasp of an unfortunate hit was culled, leaving her in an abrupt, strained silence.  
In the silence, a wind of relief blew past her, tousling the hair she’d haphazardly slicked back in her jacket. A distant rumble, unlike that of an engine, fell from the pale sky. She heaved a sigh - another alike to the one which expressed her displeasure of partnership - and hovered her fingers over Takemura’s contact. ‘Such a fucking pain, this one. Thinks he can just ignore me, act like he can handle this gig on his own,’ she spat onto the stained pavement, feeling the inclination to hurl her phone onto it, too.  
The rumbling now plummeted from above, jerking the trees like an earthquake from over the faraway skyline. The neon flickered in unease as she opened her eyes again, a look of resolve overwhelming her senses. She tapped his contact with vigor, a perch to her brows furrowing her tired eyes. The sky’s grumbling turned to a growl, as did her sigh once he’d rejected the call.  
‘At least he knows,’ she surmised, smoothing the creases in her face with a wipe of her trembling hands. Her peeled nails dug into her forehead, covering the pulsating optics. Each step she took away from the Arch felt like stumbling into Hell; the burning of her head and stagger of her approach to an overhang resembling that of a Maelstrom addict.  
‘I could go for something, actually. At least while I still can,’ the final thought of dread grew faint, drawn out by the rain’s beginning taps on the scraps of steel. It was as if it rapped on the roof, beckoning her to stand in the cold, to smother and relieve her of frustration’s heat. But she didn’t like her hair wet, despite the building grease which had shined under the city’s artificial light.  
So, she waited, nearly out of the storm, and under a dripping shelter. And waited. Perhaps the job had a hurried air, but the roar of such a tempest had her heeding its gale. And she waited. The twisted, violent rain hurled itself against the city’s lights, dampening its vivid glare. And she waited -  
An unfamiliar splash of the flooding pavement cast her gaze towards the closest corner. A silhouette under the arc of a shadowed umbrella loomed on the street’s horizon, advancing to the shelter she hid under. The figure managed minimal strides, growing in her vision as the man whom she waited for.  
He stopped, the clarity of his face waning under the torrent of rain. V didn’t stare, didn’t scowl; she crossed her arms in a clear obstinance, returning the favor. Perhaps it was childish, yet the silence still strained amongst the two. A crackling flash in the sky didn’t faze her gaze, illuminating the returning furrows of her face. She bit her lip, desiring to outburst against the vague figure. Her rigid arms came to grasp herself in a cold comfort, opposite hugging the other in a vain warmth.  
His relentless glare was frigid, more so than the biting air; pale, glowing sockets, of which resembled the hidden moon, were the only distinct trait of his face. The moon had neither ever frightened nor quivered her heart, yet even from the side of her lilted gaze, it tensed the beating of it. Even so, V didn’t waver and stumble in the eyes of fear.  
“You’ll need it - my help. Don’t put on some damn act ‘cause I hurt your feelings, it’s fucking pitiful.” She stalked to the edge of the roof, “And if there was one thing I didn’t take you for, it was hypocrite.” A sneer etched itself onto her face - a proud and ugly grin. “Well? Got any words, corpo-rat?! Anything you have to say to your partner?” Another flash of strangled brilliance reeled in the night, followed by a screech of the heaven’s furious tempest.  
Yet, all of it turned to white noise when he spoke. V awaited his worn words, despite answering her own questions immediately upon spitting them in his face. Now drenched in the cascade, all became still, the moment was so in her ill-deluged eyes. It was washed away in familiarity, as she’d already imagined all he had left to say to her. So little, for she was the one who was pitiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, this was majorly melodramatic. Thankfully, Goro will actually get dialogue in the next chapter (if very little). One last thing, if a description appears more like a thought, I probably forgot to add an apostrophe to signify V’s using her noggin. When I write the draft, I use italics to do this, but I guess my phone doesn’t like to transfer that to ao3.


	3. Wash the Blood with More, and it Shall Stain Your Hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When a solo questions their own preservation, already their instincts have failed them. By then, they’re standing in their grave, with the one to deliver them to it. That’s why V had died that night, buried under the city’s waste, and a bullet in her brain. And there began the festering of companionship which she believed to be salvation – the ghost of a lonely man there to taunt her for it.

In the daggers of rain hid a ghost, its figure tormented by the sharpened torrent. It stood, naught but a single light in the dour, its bud sizzling in the mouth; the hand which steadied it flicking its glare to V, who stood, too, in the flood. A shine in the gaping depth of its sockets chased her like the city’s fluorescence, tailing her, yet never fast enough to take hold and consume. 

She was still there, hair soggy in the rain, gawking at the silhouette. The slogging of steps in the drenched streets broke the silence, each drop of rain collapsing onto her shoulders with the weight of her guilt; simultaneously, the seething glare of the ghost faded away, forcing V to turn towards the other, her partner. He turned the corner, coat dragging behind him, and she hurried to catch him. 

As the ringing of the rain’s blows steadied, V focused, tucking and tossing the thoughts from prior into the lacking depths of her mind; it was no cave, but it was concealed by the sudden stir of an addiction. Even the rain’s mist couldn’t hide the stripped cybernetic-limbs which protruded from the cement, grips clenched in their last feeling moments. V looked up – Takemura had stopped, closed his umbrella under a ledge of steel, and was opening a shingled door which would act as their entry point. 

‘No words required,’ she remarked, almost spilling it aloud. The rendezvous point had been marked, the strategic point of entry identified, and all that was left to do was carnage. The revolvers V hid away in her jacket hummed as she filtered into the darkness, disguised by the shadows of a tilting roof and the drowning ambience of what they’d previously felt under their weight. 

She would hide just a moment longer, catching a glimpse of Takemura’s signal; although, he seemed to have slipped, an unintentional delay to his part of the gig. She would hide another moment, peering into the slipping light from a lightning’s flare, tracing the moment’s image before it faded into a pure coat of black. All but shone in the darkness were the eyes of the demons, radiating blood, a shine which dripped luminosity in the open air. 

Another moment. The amalgamation of creaking, static voices drew V closer – but the eyes of the moon shone on her once more – commanding her to wait. Yet, she still didn’t understand his order of fear, drawing the iron from her sodden jacket like knives, reflecting defiance. Takemura’s eyes narrowed, waning crescents hitting a grenade that fled from his fingertips. A nod, and an explosion of light. Their cue. 

V ran, dashing between the pillars of steel, avoiding the screeches of metal cords. Spiders’ eyes crawled beyond her gaze, demanding their quarry, crimson in a maddening fury. She fired, and a burst of metal burned in the flash of her barrel. There was no blood, only a smoldering lust. A simple hunger – and she dove in. 

Bursts of shots rang and splattered behind her, so V continued, deeper, ravenous. She growled, walloping the grip’s blunt against a hiding shadow. It had blinked, shown its bleeding optics, and it was dead, crushed under the foot of its supposed prey. Still, she maneuvered through the field of hiding and brave demons, chased by the flickering of their shots. They fired, she hit, one had dodged; this was repeated, like the devil’s dance, as more hit the floor. 

It was only when V heard her name beckoned did she end her slaughter. But the end of the barrel was pointed to him, and the glimmering of his eyes waned like before. Yet, deeper in their tone, darker, searching, and fierce. Her eyes, loud with glutton, tunneled to him, zeroed his figure in the dark. He’d pushed into the light, now, sensing the entropy. The scowl which tore her face. 

Takemura’s rifle had already found itself hidden in his heaving coat, arms free of their iron, but still glaring at the end of V’s. She breathed. A tense beating of the heart, rapid, clenching. She had swallowed it all too quickly. The iron trembled, and fell, the torrent above lulling her tired mind as it unraveled. 

Her lashes dragged against the bottom of her eyes; she had to tilt the muscles of her neck to see her partner’s collage of scraps. Each socket of red flickering like the ghost’s cigarette, fading away, consumed by the dark. 

“You are not right, V.” He drawled, walking past her lumbered figure. As he walked by, she felt towered by the midnight of his stance, its sharp and prevailing pride. The steps were no longer pulled under the deluge, but were still heavy and visible in the still moments given to them through the barreling of lightning. 

When V felt the clambering echo simmer in her chest, she felt only then it was right to tuck the still warm iron back. Only then, was it right to untuck the feelings again; feel the irritability settle into the grooves of her brain. ‘Wash it out,’ she sighed. 

Following the trail of her partner's footsteps and the clattering of boxes, she found Takemura rummaging through the contents of the convoy. “It ‘all there?” She called; hand steadied on the hip of her pants. 

“There is nowhere else.” He stood, closing the trunk. Arms firmly folded, he leaned against the side of a pillar. “Contact him, your fixer. I am sure he’s waiting.” A silence settled between them like before, but now, he rested the eyes which seemed to overwhelm her. ‘Old man,’ she would’ve laughed. She wanted to. 

Picking through her contacts, she found Padre’s again. It was a dull red. ‘Fuck, if I have’t see another shade of this shitty color-‘

“V. All went well, I can assume.” A coiling voice extinguished her thoughts, “Deliver the convoy to the edge of Northside, to the city center. I’ll have men waiting for you.” Again, he left like the distant voice of God, directing his children to salvation. It made her eyes roll circles, pirouette in her sockets; childish, she knew it, to be obstinate to God’s will. 

She stuttered to the garage’s opening, forcing it open with a limp grip. Its screeching clenched her fists, the red returning in a quick pulse. The furrows on her face ached, sore from the precision of her irrepressible anger. It took even more bullets to calm it, now. Eventually, the door halted, high enough to fit the truck of cargo. Waves of the bitter air cooled the steam condensing on her forehead. 

Another sigh left her. “Would you rather we part ways now?” She winced, the leer of his eyes striking her as a harsh slap to awaken, “Padre just needs this shit hauled to the city center, and the gig’s up.” 

Takemura left the cold pillar, seizing the chill in his stride to the driver’s seat. No words, only directions. Only formality. Just a steely bulk produced from Arasaka. V’s hand returned to her hip, saddling the other to a strip of magazines on her thigh’s pocket; as she sat on a pile of discarded, various metals, the tinge of longing hit her again. A cruel feeling that arrived in pangs, especially so when yet another moment passed her by. 

The truck’s engine had started, a grueling sound, old and buffering. ‘Damn, is he leaving or what? Shit stinks,’ she huffed, imitating the exhaust. Turning her lowered face to the windshield, she had barely caught the muffled words of her partner. It sharpened the edges of her face with confusion, but nonetheless, she stood from the rubble. More of a tumble in her state, lurching onto the side of the passenger door to catch herself. 

Peeling herself off the door, V slipped into the even fouler stench of the truck. Although, she controlled her expression to a mild hint of disgust, coughing into her jacket’s sleeve. As the truck tilted forwards in a light drive, she went with it, jouncing with each tire into the rivers of a street. 

“What else ‘you need me for? You can scurry on back to whatever back alley in Japantown you were hiding in – job's up.” V reached to turn the radio on, flicking through the stations to find Pacifica. ’Gonks fucked up their own radio,’ another huff heaving itself from her heavy chest. 

Takemura heeded her attitude with little interest, distracted by the pools of neon swashing under mountainous tires. The image below, unclear, and distorted. The peripheral of his eyes caught the curious glance of V’s, whose faltered back to the radio’s notch. Her paled hands ghosted on it once she found the etching tune of the blues. 

“I need...what you might call a voucher.” He turned into an unfamiliar intersection, a darting gape between each street. 

“Yeah, that’s probably what we call it around here.” V responded lamely, tossing a pointed finger to the right. “You need a map, too.” Arm resting on the windowsill against her face, she saw her vision shrink, relaxed in the streaming of rain. ‘What did I want to say, again? Some kind of comeback, probably,’ she wondered, as the cooled air of the outside reached her face. It basked her in the night’s blanket, but she couldn’t sleep. She could hear the tint of a statement on his lips; it was enough to rest her irritability with the bed of conversation. 

“You are without clarity. Only a dead woman walks without eyes.” His drawling English went on, an odd lullaby to her ears. Perhaps a smile teased at her worn mouth. 

“Just wake me up when we get there,” she felt the brisk warmth of a smile, “Or did you want to finally slit my throat while I slept - how dishonorable.” A puppy-accent slipped from her, and the bitterness returned. Raising her hand limply to turn the radio, the languid, drawn tune of chortling brass eased the tension in her chest. The last calling to sleep, a new lullaby, as she mumbled, _“Rot in Hell, Takemura...”_


End file.
